Yeah, Well I Hope You Die
by Brunette
Summary: Drunk Delanceys, angry hookers, a sarcastic Kelly, and wisecracking Higgins. If you were Skittery, you'd be in a bad mood, too.
1. S

_Author's Note: I really don't know where this came from. I think the title came into my mind first, and I'm a sucker for a catchy title. Then I decided it would be in Skit's point of view, and somehow a_ Catcher in the Rye_ feel to the story seemed to work very well. So if you're able to find a point to this, you weren't reading it right._

_Obviously, I don't own Skittery or Crutchy or Blink or Jack or Race or anyone else mentioned in this story, except Jacques Hardy and DeVine, I suppose. Use 'em if you want to; I don't really care. I'm not all uptight like Disney! ((glares))_

Yeah, Well I Hope You Die

It started out one of those normal days, you know? One of those, "Life's-hell-but-I'm-not-gonna-stab-anybody-over-it" days. Jeeze, don't look at me like that. I only stabbed somebody 'cause it was a bad day once. Anyway, I got up, got dressed, all that stuff. Things even looked up for a while, 'cause Race offered to buy me breakfast. He's always generous after he wins money. And, considerin' how many times I've loaned him dough, he definitely owes me.

So we walk over to Tibby's, I have a cup of coffee and an English muffin, 'cause they didn't make crossents that morning. That's okay; I mean, crossents are my favorite, but it was just a normal day, like I said. It wasn't one of those "Wonderful-Tibby's-is-servin'-crossents" days. So I had an English muffin with Race, and a cup of coffee - Jordy wasn't workin', so it wasn't spiked coffee, but once again, it was just one 'a them normal days. And Race paid for my bill, and I spotted him a bit because he was goin' to Sheepshead, and I figgered it was the least I could do, seein' as how he bought my breakfast and all.

I was planning on going straight to my selling spot, down on 5th Avenue, 'cause all the rich old ladies are shoppin', but I got ... say, sidetracked. Yeah, sidetracked'll fit the bill. You see, there's this dame. I say dame, 'cause she _is_ a dame. She ain't a goil - she's somewhere in twenty years old, which is a good three more than I got, but that's beside the point. This dame is Maggie McCuthe - 'scuse me, _Mrs._ Maggie McCuthe. Yeah, so I can hear what you're thinkin'. It's nothin', right? She's just the most beautiful broad to walk the face of the oith. So you can see why I was sidetracked. Mm, is that dame goigeous ... Sorry, I was tellin' you somethin', right?

So I was stopped just long enough to watch her walk down the street, 'cause she looks so good walkin' away ... and I bump into the crip. I mean Crutchy, 'a course. Look, I don't got no problem with Crutchy 'cause he's a crip. I got a problem with him 'cause he's freaking stupid and annoying. He's just got this voice that just ... argh, and the stuff he says ... I dunno. I just don't like the guy, right? And he run into me, with that big stupid grin right below his big stupid nose on his big stupid face and he says:

"Hey, Skits! Where ya sellin'?"

Meanin' he wants to sell with me. No thank you, no way, no how -

"Don't know yet, Crutch."

Hey, it's his own dumb fault. Every fella in the lodging house knows I sell 5th Avenue. And every fella in the lodging house knows that when Crutch wants to sell with you, you got no dough comin' in. They _always_ sell to the crip afore anyone else. _Especially_ old, rich, shoppin' ladies.

"Well I was just wonderin', 'cause Blink took yah spot. He went down to 5th early."

I turned and stared at Crutchy, eyes wide, jaw hangin' open. That's when the day started to get bad. For two years now, 5th has been mine, and all the sudden - ope, Blink wants it. So the crip takes it? What a jerk, right? Just 'cause he ain't got no depth perception don't mean I won't throttle him for takin' it and leavin' me to find a spot all on my own ...

Crutch was grinning from ear to ear at me, and I just about punched the wall. He'd left me to find a new spot with Crutchy. Now he was playin' dirty. What'd I ever do to him, anyway? That's when it hit me. I had to 'a been hearin' wrong. Blink wouldn't do something like that to me. I looked Crutchy hard in the eye:

"What'd he do?"

But he just kept grinnin' that big, dumb grin 'a his and repeated all-happy-like: "He took 5th. Early this mornin', like I said."

Well, if that's the way he wanted it -

"Fine. I'll just go down there and tell him to go find his own damn spot."

And I had a really good, tough walk goin' on - you know, for about three steps, no punk in East Side woulda messed with _me_. But Crutch came hobblin' right up beside me with:

"I wouldn't do that if I was you."

I wasn't slowin' down. With any luck, he'd fall behind and give up. "Oh, why's that?"

" 'Cause he's seein' a goil, and you know Jacky's rule about goils."

I stopped. Everybody knew Jacky's rule on goils. We never interfered with each other's goils (which I have), we never got into fights over goils (which I have), and we never ruined each other's chances with goils (which I have about a bazillion times. Oh, yeah ... guess that's why Blink was pissed). But, see, the thing about breaking Jacky's rule on goils was that you never did it with another guy knowin'. That was like the - the ... clause! Right! Like the clause of the rule. You could do any 'a that stuff, as long as you didn't get caught. And you was always caught with Crutchy's big, stupid gums flappin' non-stop.

So I was back to finding a sellin' spot by myself ... with Crutchy. Needless to say, I groaned when I figgered I was pretty well hopeless.

"So where we goin'?"

I scoffed, a little edgy as it was. With a little talent and a lot of obvious remarks, you can shake off the crip.

"_We?_ _We_ ain't goin' nowhere. _I'm_ findin' my own spot."

And I started walking again. Like I was before, just so he might get the hint. No go.

"Right!" Crutchy agreed happily, and for a split second, I was stupid enough to think he got it. "Mind if I come along?"

"Yeah," I retorted, and pretty rudely, too. 'Course Crutch's the type to take "yeah, I mind" and make it "yeah, you can come."

"Great!" he exclaimed all-happy, and started hobblin' again. Maybe I should feel bad about this, but the way the guy walks even irritates me. "Where we goin'?"

What - _we_, again ...

I shrugged. It was a lost cause. "I dunno, Crutch. You tell me."

"Hey, how's about slowin' down a bit? One leg and all - "

_Yeah, I know you got one leg_, I felt like shoutin'. The whole freakin' East Side knows Crutchy has one good leg, and he still think he's gotta tell us every time he can't do somethin' we can. Like the crutch and the nickname wasn't a dead give-away.

I slowed down. I don't know why I slowed down. Maybe my day wasn't so plumb rotten at that point that I was willin' to feel sorry for him. It gets worse, I'm tellin' you. It got worse right about the time I slowed down ...

"Hey, crip!"

My stomach started to feel sick. The Delanceys. Which meant Crutchy would expect me to protect him or somethin' ...

"Yeah, s'pose we can keep goin' your way," Crutch changed his mind, and he sure picked up the pace, considerin' his ... situation. Before I knew it, he was ahead 'a me, so I started to run. I glanced behind me, and was very disappointed to find Oscar and Morris pushin' through the mid-morning crowd. Great. Just what I needed.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, I was runnin' way ahead, and I thought I might get outta this clear, after all. Then I heard that dumb, high-pitched, annoying:

"Skittery!"

Like I was supposed to help him or something. So I turned around and started jogging back to the direction I came. Morris's got this laugh, right? This really stupid, idiot laugh that just red-flag's him, and I heard it just at the right time. I turn into the alleyway, and there they are - the two big, dumb, futureless jerks with a crip by the collar between 'em. I pray every night (yeah, every once in 'a while I do that ... I ain't _all_ rotten) I don't end up that pathetic. If I have to start pickin' on crips for entertainment in the city 'a New York, I think I'll kill myself.

"Hey, guys, how's about pickin' on someone your own size?"

I hate that line. It's so flippin' stupid. Mostly 'cause I'm their size. The two pinheads turn and look at me, all surpised-like. You'd think they'd lose that look 'a shock. Someone always comes to help Crutchy. You can set your watch on it.

Just as that genuine look of surprise was wearin' off their ugly faces, a worse gleam came in their beady little eyes. You know that evil, slimy Delancey smirk? It's like, there's Jack's smirk, which we all wish we could do, 'cause goils faint every time he does it, and then there's the Delancey smirk that makes goils turn and run 'cause they think they're gonna get violated. Yeah, they had that violating look on their stupid, ugly faces.

They dropped Crutchy like a sack 'a potatoes, and I s'pose he tumbled around all pathetically and crap, and I looked like a real good guy savin' his ass from a beatin'. Whether he looked pathetic enough for me to be the big hero or not don't matter to me, 'cause they was comin' towards me all manevolent and crap. I waited just until they came out of the alley, 'til they could probably catch me if I wasn't quick enough, then I started runnin'. I know they followed me for a good six blocks, 'cause they're too stupid to remember that they had a perfectly easy victim they could be throttlin' instead 'a chasin' me. Some people is like dogs.

Anyway, I lost 'em, so I turned and started back. I was gettin' hungry, too, 'cause it was about lunch, and I realized about then that I still had twenty papes under my arm. It was probably worthless to try and start sellin' at that point, but I kept 'em anyway. I decided I'd wait until the schoolboys got out and sell 'em to them for half 'a what Weasel charges, and still manage to make something. You see, there's a whole gang 'a boys who sell the evenin' paper 'cause they're in school when we're sellin' the mornin' paper. There ain't no difference between the mornin' and evenin' paper, unless some clataclysmic event happens that afternoon. Figgerin' this was the best plan, I decided I'd get back to Tibby's and have somethin' to eat. I was hopin' the day would look up, and they'd have hot corn-beef sandwiches without the saurkraut, 'cause I hate freakin' German food, but an Irish corn-beef sandwich is pretty good. I cheered myself up with that thought and kept walkin' along.

It was right about then that things got a bad look again. You probably don't know my pops. His name is Jaques Hardy, and I have no idea why. He says he's French somewhere, 's why he called me LaFyette, which is a flittin' fag name if I ever heard one, but I only told him that once. Anyway, his name is Jaques Hardy, but everyone calls him Vodka. I don't know why they call him Vodka - that's Russian, and he says he's French, but we're all pretty much Irish, so mostly I think he hangs out in opium dens too much. Back when I didn't know what an opium den was, I figgered he was nuts.

My pops is a pimp, to be blunt honest. For as long as I can remember, he's been a pimp. I figger my ma was a whore, but I saw her like three times my whole life, and all three 'a them times, she was drunk or on a buzz. Yeah, don't look all sorry and crap. It's life. It's what happens. Maybe I don't always look on life like it's great and worth livin', but nobody sure as hell better feel sorry for me 'cause it happened to be especially hard for me.

Anyway, I'm walkin', and I hear this whistle. And I know who's whistle it is, 'cause I used to go around with my pops and collect from his goils. Yeah, you heard me right. Since ya're probably wondering, I had my first goil when I was thirteen. Pimps give cheap birthday presents - what can I say? Yeah, so the whistle was DeVine's. I always thought that was a dumb name, since she came up with it herself, and I tell her it every time I see her. It is a dumb name. It's one thing if you get stuck with a name, like LaFyette, but I covered for it. Skittery may not be great, but it ain't LaFyette. Why would you make up your own name to be DeVine? She's pretty stupid, mostly. She's like thirty, which is old for a whore, and she thinks she's my mother, even though she's not. What's even stupider is that, if she was my mother, she woulda made a worse one than the one I got. Or had. I think she's dead. Anyway, DeVine was whistling at me, which is weird, 'cause she thinks I'm her son. Like she hasn't been knocked up enough to have her own kids. She just had 'em cut out every time. I bet there's some nasty scars on that old dame's dried up body.

So I strongly consider walkin' on by, like I didn't hear her, but she has to go and call out:

"LaFyette, come here."

One thing I ain't never been able to get straight with her - only my parents get to call me my real name, and I only got one parent left. She ain't included. She should be callin' me Skittery. Skits at the most. But like I said, she thinks she gave birth to me, so there's no tellin' her.

I walk over, groanin' so she makes this short.

"What De?" 'cause I refuse to call her 'DeVine.' It's stupid.

She has to all pull me near and touch my hair and all that motherly crap. I hope she gets lice; my head's been itchin'.

"Oh, baby boy, I haven't seen you's in so long! When you gonna come visit your pops and me?"

I let out this irritated sigh and yank away from her. "I don't visit you, De. And I don't visit Pops. I'm stayin' away from whorehouses."

Yeah, right. But I needed to tell her that, so she didn't get all jealous and tell Pops I was seein' other guys' whores. She did this horrible pout, that made her bloated face look like a freaking bulldog that got some beer in its water dish, and just looked at me, like I was supposed to appologize and tell her I'd come and see her real soon.

"I gotta go; my friend's waitin'."

Which wasn't entirely untrue. I mean, Crutchy was probably hangin' out waitin' for me to show up and brighten up his day. I hoped he had a black eye.

She kept that same ugly look on her face and sighed at length. "Oh, alright. I just wish I could see you more. I need you to talk some sense into your pops. We ain't speakin' again. I swear, this goil he's with ain't no more'n your age."

And if De had half a freaking brain, she'd realize that every goil my pops's seen since he could get it up has been goils who are teenagers; hell, he even saw _her_ when she was my age. This ain't a new concept with my pops. He's always dated young goils. A lotta them we dated at the same time. De's the only idiot who don't get it.

I shrugged, pretending to feel sorry for her. She's stupid enough to buy that sort of thing. "The breaks. I'll say somethin' to him."

And if she's a looker, I'll say somethin' to her, too. I don't tell my pops what to do. He never told _me_ what to do.

She let me off with a suffocatin' hug and a disgusting kiss on the cheek goodbye, and I hurried as fast as I could to Tibby's. I was disappointed to find that all the guys had been in and gone back out, and that they weren't servin' hot corn-beef sandwiches. My day didn't feel like it could get any worse.

But, 'a course, it did.

"Hey, Skits! Where'd you go back there? Gee, that was some runnin' - wish I could do that; them guys would never catch me, why - "

"Shut up, Crutchy," 'cause I was in no freakin' mood for him.

He laughed his big, stupid laugh and kept goin':

"I'd be so fast. Man, where'd you learn to run like that? Maybe I could climb fire escapes that fast. You know, when I was little, I went to the circus on Coney Island, and I saw these acrobats ..."

The worst thing about an annoying crip is that you can't hit him.

"Crutch, I swear I'll soak you if you don't shut up."

And annoying crips know you can't hit 'em, neither.

"I'm thinkin' with a little practice, I could do that. Whadda you think? I'd have to get some strength in my arms, but, you know, that won't take much. Maybe if I start walkin' on my hands, and I don't use my foot - you know my leg's real strong 'cause it's the only one I use, so maybe if I stop usin' it and usin' my arms ..."

I don't really know how much further he talked before I finally slammed my fists on the table and stared him straight in the eye.

"Shut up, Crutchy! I don't wanna hear you right now! I'm havin' a freakin' bad day and you're makin' it worse! You're half the reason it's bad!"

And he stopped. I really didn't think he would, so I was pretty surprised. Yeah, I was really surprised when he just stared at me with his big, stupid mouth hangin' wide open in shock. He didn't say anything for a good minute, so I returned to my eatin'. Then, really quiet, 'cause he was chokin' on tears:

"Well my day wasn't no walk in the park, neither."

Like I cared.

"So?"

Slowly, he was gettin' his guff back. "So it ain't my fault yah day was bad. Just 'cause you can't ever admit it's yah own fault don't mean it's everyone else's!"

I couldn't believe he just said that. Why would he say something like that? What a stupid jerk, right? I just tell him I'm havin' a bad day, so he thinks he's gotta make it worse.

"Just shut up, Crutch. I don't care."

And I really thought he'd given it up - I really thought he finally got the message when he grabbed his crutch and started to get out of the chair. I could feel him starin' at me, but I didn't look up. He woulda wanted me to look up.

"Yeah, well I hope you die," he muttered back, and started hobbling off.

Seriously. Yeah, well I hope you die. Half the little punks at the lodging house could come up with something better than that. I decided I'd just let him go and be mad. He could just sit there and think about how much he wanted me to die. Yeah, he could think about that the next time the Delanceys came around. He could think about me bein' dead, and wantin' that when some jerk picked on him. Yeah. It'd be good for him; shut him up. And I decided that was a really good idea for all of ten minutes.

Then I got up to find Crutchy, and appologize.


	2. K

_Author's Note: Yeah, this was originally meant to stay a one-shot, but I had this new Skits one-shot in mind, and I thought, "hey, if it's from his POV, why not just add on to_ Yeah, Well I Hope You Die_?" So hear we are again._

_Disclaimer: As always, they're not mine. Yet._

* * *

Crutch went off somewheres. I don't know where he went, but he was hidin', prob'ly cryin', and by hisself. I figgered that was just the way it was gonna be, for the time bein'. So I decided I'd find another crip that'd managed to piss me off that day - Kid Blink.

Mostly, I like Blink. He's a good guy - too happy to be sober, but a good guy the same. That's why I guess I couldn't figger his takin' my spot. I mean, ah'right, so I did tell the dame he was after a few things, but it was all for kicks. I'd figgered he'd get her anyway, and explain what a dumbass I was. That's usually what you do, you know. It's part of the whole chase ... thing. Like Mush, this one time, tells this broad I had once that I been tah jail for killing this guy. And she's all scared, but kinda - whaddya call? - intrigued, so I kinda went with it. I ain't never been to jail, but it's not like she's gonna go any time soon, either, so I made up some great stories. You can do a lot, with what a fella tells a goil ya're after. Jake says he once got two goils because Race said he had some kinda chronic illness (whatever the hell a chronic illness is), and Jake's one ugly sonuvabitch, too.

Yeah, so maybe tellin' the dame that Blink was a flit wasn't the nicest thing, though. I figgered she'd see it as a challenge, and wanna know all about the flittin' stuff that those underground fags do, and ask about how they do things down there. And I figgered that Kid, with his dirty mind, could come up with a whole load a bullshit about how fags do it, and have a real good time with the dame.

What kinda thanks do I get, huh?

I'm thinkin' his lack of imagination shouldn't be taken out on me.

So, anyway, I'm walkin' over to the Lodging House, because it's pretty much break time for most guys, and I run into Tumbler. Tumbler's a good kid, mostly. He follows me around, but that don't bother me, 'cause I never got a little brother, and most the little punks at the Lodging House is scared 'a me. I really don't know why. I'm pretty nice to the little ones. I figger, old as I'm gettin', one of 'em's bound tah be mine anyhow, so I might as well be nice. And I tell ya, the kids who come in lately keep gettin' younger and younger - we got this new one, Loudmouth - biggest freakin' eyes you ever seen; he's like four, but he's got this voice that just carries ... and then the little punk can cry! He always sells outta papes. I'd like to find that kid's parents and beat the crap outta them for lettin' him out on the streets, 'cause he's gonna run the rest of us outta business, 'cept I figger he might be mine, in which case I can't beat his parents, anyway.

But about Tumbler. I made Tumbler my little brother, because most the other kids didn't like him when he first come. I don't remember why, but they didn't, so I took him in a little. Other fellas didn't like me when I first come; most of 'em thought I was lower or somethin', 'cept Bumlets 'cause his ma was a whore, and seein' as how my pops is a pimp, there wasn't no difference in us, anyhow. And Swifty and Boots, I guess, 'cause Swifty's chink and Boots is Negro, so the fellas ain't always nicest to them, neither. They mean good and all, but people try and find some way to be better than other people, right, so they ain't always the way the should be, and they don't always treat 'em right.

Oh, I remember now. They didn't like Tumbler 'cause he was pom. And I figgered, whether he's English or not, don't matter now 'cause he's orphan, and orphan's a race by itself. So I took him in, and the other little guys forgot he was a pom, after a while. It's easier to forget that when ya're white. Some 'a the guys don't got it that easy.

So I see Tumbler, sittin' on the steps 'a the Lodgin' House, chewin' gum. And I wonder where he got gum, because candy don't just grow on trees, you know?

"Where'd you get that, Tumbler?" I ask him, sittin' down with him.

He gnawed on the stuff a little bit, then answered, "Kloppman got this whole bucket of it."

I couldn't believe it. Now I was missin' out on candy, too. "He got a whole bucket 'a gum?"

"Well, gum and taffy and licorice and stuff like that."

I stared at him a second, figgerin' he must be lyin'. Kloppman just doesn't go out and buy buckets 'a candy. And if he did, he'd have a good reason, like Christmas. Just any old normal day ain't good enough for a guy who has tah run a Newsboy Lodging House to go out and buy a bucket 'a candy.

I looked Tumbler good in the eye. "You ain't lyin' tah me? You didn't steal it?"

He shook his head, his cheek all full with the wad 'a gum and sugary spit on the side 'a his face.

"No. Kloppman got a whole bucket."

I was still a skeptic. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's his boithday. Cowboy got it for 'im."

And that would figger, too. Jack would go out and steal a whole bucket 'a candy for Kloppy, just because he's Jack. Sometimes, I think I might kill Jack. I'm not even lyin'. He's too much 'a his own self when he's nice. He's got this whole leader thing goin' on, which really kinda irritates me a bit. We're newsies, right? Who says we need a leader? It's a job. Factory workers don't got a leader. Railroad workers don't got a leader. They just go and do their job. If there's a leader, he's gettin' paid to be. Far as I know, Jack don't get no more money than the rest 'a us, so he shouldn't be paradin' all over like he's king. Specs says I'm jealous, but he only said that once. And maybe I am, but that's only 'cause it don't make no sense.

I like Jack and all. He's a good guy, mostly. I just don't like how he acts all important, and I don't like how everyone around him goes along with it, too. Even Kloppman. I mean, really. What makes Jack Kelly so damn special? He's as much as any 'a the rest of us. I don't see it's right for one guy to be some sort 'a head. I think the big guys should protect the little ones, and the little guys should listen to the big fellas. I don't see why Upper East Side needs Jack to be the big leader. That's why I think 'a killin' Jack, sometimes. One 'a these days, and that day will be soon, is comin' when we'll be on our own doin' some thing or another. And when that day comes, Jack Kelly ain't gonna be there. Ain't no reason to get dependent in the first place.

Nobody sees stuff my way, though. I stood up to go, ruffin' through Tumbler's hair to get a rise outta him. He hates it when a guy touches his hair. S'pose some day he'll hate it when a dame touches his hair, but he's too little tah be worryin' about dames yet. Tumbler'll be a good guy, some day. I mean, he'll run a factory with some bitchin' wife and ten kids, but he'll be a good guy about it, so long as no one ruffs his hair. Me on the other hand won't take stuff like that so good. I figger I won't get married, 'less the dame's really in trouble. You know, like if she's a good goil, and her pops'll kill her if she has a kid with no father. Then I figger I'll get married. Mostly, I stay away from good goils, because 'a that, though. And if she thinks for one lousy minute she'll be bitchin' in my ear, I'll give 'er a black eye - I don't care who she is. Nothin's worse than a bitchin' dame. Pops used tah wallop some 'a them whores real good when they got tah bitchin'. One thing's sure, I ain't never marryin' a whore - I don't care what she does in bed. Them are the lousiest dames on the oith.

I get side-tracked pretty easy. Sorry 'bout that.

What was I sayin'?

Oh, right. So I walk into the Lodging House, and there's a whole bunch 'a the guys in the lounge, eatin' taffy and suckin' on carmels and gettin' all sticky and all that, and I see Jack in the center of it all, smirkin' all smug-like and gettin' thanked 'cause he got the bucket in the first place. Sometimes I really hate him. It's like he does some stuff just for attention. I walk up to him. He's got a few 'a the guys grinnin' with him - Race and Mush and Bumlets, and I walk up to him, kinda conversational, but I think he could tell I was pissed. I knew he could tell, 'cause he grinned all innocent.

"Hey, Skits!"

The other guys echoed him a bit, and I kinda smile, 'cause otherwise Race'll give me some bit about bein' glum all the damn time. Some people, I tell ya.

"Where'd you get the candy, Jacky?" I ask him. He smirks, dark and mysterious, like it's some big secret. So everyone knows he's got sticky fingers, anyhow - it's not like we can't figger out he lifted it.

"It's Kloppy's boithday," he says, which is really pretty random, actually.

"That don't answer nothin'," and I musta said that too short, or somethin', 'cause Mush and Bumlets kinda snicker a little, and Race gets this sarcastic sympathy that he does because it grates on my noives and I can't hit him ... because he's Race, and you can't hit Race. I don't know why you can't hit Race, but I get this whole feelin' that it'd be really low and tacky to hit him.

"Ahh, bad day, Skits?"

Stupid jerk.

"None 'a yah damn business." Because it wasn't. And Mush just - Mush just laughed at me. Flat out! Like I really needed that. I glare at him a bit. "Where's Blink?"

And he shrugs like he's innocent, but Mush can never keep a bad joke to himself, so he's kinda gigglin' all the while he's shruggin'. Race, bein' the good guy he is, decides to cover for Mush bein' retarded.

"I ain't seen him," he puts out all innocently, and he glances at Bumlets. "You seen him?"

Bumlets shrugs, 'cause he's better at keepin' a bad joke than Mush. "Nope."

"Well I ain't askin' you's," I told 'em, 'cause it was pretty mcuh obvious I was mad, anyhow. "Where's Blink, Mush? I gotta talk to 'im."

"Why?" Mush kinda laughs out, 'cause he's still stuck on how funny this whole lame joke of a day is to him.

I wasn't in no mood for it. " 'Cause he's the reason this day's bad. Where is he?"

And I'm not lyin', I was done askin' 'em after that. If they wasn't gonna tell me that time, I was through. I was just gonna turn and walk right out the door and find Blink on my own, or Crutchy, if I found him first, and get some 'a the day's baggage off, but Race just had to open his smart little mouth. He just had to open up and answer with one of those smart little irritatin' remarks that just ... aargh ...

"He's doin' a dame on 5th. Looked kinda like you, Skits. Could be yah ma."

And usually I'd laugh at somethin' like that.

"I hope you die, Race."

And I left. I don't know why the hell I said that.


	3. I

_Author's Note: I should totally be writing my Banner article right now. So anyway, I was going through stories I haven't updated in a while. This is pretty low on my priority list, because it's not very pressing._

_Skittery: She means almost nobody reviews it._

_((cough))_

_But I'm updating anyway. Yay!_

* * *

And if it don't even sound possible, clouds started to come in like it was gonna rain. Weather stinks mostly, you know? Like, it's great when the sun's out, 'cept for the heat and the bugs. And you sweat more, so you stink more, and so everybody stinks more ... and jeeze, it's just bad all the way around. But when it's cloudy, it's gotta rain, so you get all wet, and then you smell like a mutt, and everybody smells like a mutt ... ick. It's the same with snow, too. I hate weather. There's no such thing as a nice day.

I walked about four blocks (that's city blocks, ya know) before it started to sprinkle. I don't know why it always just starts with a sprinkle if it's gonna get worse anyhow. Why doesn't God just let it pour all at once, and then stop? Why does it gotta be a progressive thing? I don't get it. I don't get most things.

So I didn't walk too far before I turned into an alleyway and leaned up against the wall, 'cause it helps. Not much, but it helps. I glanced down the alley and noticed a real unfriendly-looking bum, so I decided that the street might be safer, even if it is wetter. Bums kinda scare me. I don't know why; I lived on the streets before, and I even known a few. I guess it's just ... it's kinda like ... it's like somebody's sayin', "There's yah future, Skits. Like it or not. You got nothin' ahead 'a you's but that." Maybe that's what scares me about bums. I don't know. I sure as hell hope whoever's sayin' that is wrong.

I don't really know what I got for a future. I can read and write pretty good, I guess, considerin' most guys in my circumstance. But I mean, I really don't know where that's gonna get me. Specs says he's gonna write somethin' great. I don't know what the hell that means. He's kinda writin' this book I guess. I asked him what it's about, but he ain't talkin'. He keeps it hidden somewheres, so no one'll read it, but he says someday, it'll be in every bookstore in the country. I ask him what he'd want his book in the bookstores for anyhow, if he don't want nobody to read it. Then he called me a simpleton or some damn thing like that, and I broke his glasses and had to appologize and get him a new set.

Race's got a plan, too. He's gonna work at Sheepshead, someday, when they let him. He's been tryin' to work there since he was like six, so he figgers they gotta let him in some time. Jack's got Santa Fe; most the other guys just shrug and say they're goin' to the factory. Which they probably is, and I s'pose I am, too. I guess ... I guess I just want somethin' more than the factory, ya know? I don't know what. I don't got talent for nothin' else.

I wanna be a bigshot, but everybody wants to be a bigshot. I know that. But I mean ... I could do that, really. Maybe ... I don't know. What do bigshots do, anyhow? Whatever it is, it involves fancy horseless carriages and nice tailored suits and beautiful, sparklin' dames, so I think I could do that. But who'm I kiddin'? I'm no bigshot, right?

There's all sortsa stories about bigshots who come from the slums, you know. Like Pulitzer -- trippin' all the way from Budapest, and makin' a livin' just by workin' up. Maybe I could work up. Start at a factory and take it over. That involves a whole lotta luck though. If there's one thing I don't got, it's luck. If I had any luck at all, I wouldn'ta run into_ her._

She was a pretty dame. They always is. And they always smell real nice and look real nice and have real nice hair and pretty smiles. That'll always get us bottom guys. She just opened the door, and leaned out a little, and said in the prettiest Southern voice:

"Hey there, sugar."

I looked up, 'cause no one calls me sugar -- least not on a regular basis -- and there she was, pretty and nice and sweet. At first I couldn't figger why she'd call out to me; that house was for bigshots with sparklin', bitchy wives. Then I got her reason straight. I scowled at her, and started walkin' again.

"Honey, you won't leave me on my lonesome!" she called kinda pathetic and sweet. An idiot would think she was a virgin. Ha.

"Whorehouses ain't lonesome places, Belle," I retorted briskly. I don't know why, but she stepped out onto the street. Somehow, in those stupid, clicking little shoes, she ended up right beside me. Belle's pretty, but she's dumb. It was rainin'. She was gonna ruin her dress.

"LaFyette Hardy," she said all stern and commanding, holdin' on to my arm. She's another one that don't understand that she's got no right to my real name. Dames, mostly, is stupid.

I looked her in the eye. She's got real pretty eyes, if I had the time of day for 'em. Kinda brown and kinda green. I don't know what you call that, but it's pretty the same.

"What is it? It's rainin' and I don't got time," I told her shortly, tryin' to wrench away my arm. Damn, the whore's got a grip and nails! I hate dames with nails.

"You listen to me, _honey_," and I really hated the way she said that. _Hun-NEE_, like her teeth was gritted when she said it. Sarcastic dames are a pain in the ass. "I don't see you in two months, and you have the nerve to act like that to me? You disgracin' Yankee! Come inside right now!"

And she drug me right through that dark, hidden little door that most people assume is a theater entrance. Anybody who thinks that is stupid. There's no theater around.

I been in the place before. That in itself's a story, but I don't really have time. Basically, in ... say, a "moment of weakness" I snuck into this snitzy "gentleman's club" and told Belle I was a runaway from some bigshot's family, and she figgered this meant I had a load of dough. Well, turns out the madam in charge knows Pops, 'cause everybody in the business knows Pops, and lets me stick around for free because he got her outta some trouble sometime way before I was born, or some shit like that. So I milk that for all it's worth, end up drunk, maybe ask Belle to marry me, and run off when I sober up.

I told you already I ain't never marryin' a whore.

It always smells heavy in them nice whorehouses. Like perfume and flowers, I s'pose. It ain't an offendin' smell, but it kinda ... weighs on you. Takes you over. And before you know it, it's taken yah dough. I checked my pockets quickly. I didn't have nothin' in 'em, anyway. I'd spent my last dime on lunch.

Belle grabbed my by the ear and threw me into a room. It ain't that she's stronger than me; it's that she had me by the ear, and the smell was takin' me over. I tried to clear my head right quick. Unfortunately, her hand across my face did a better job than I could. I probably gave a little cry of pain, 'cause it really did hurt, but mostly for the effect of her feelin' sorry for me. She didn't take it, though.

"I expected you back here sometime!" she shouted, her face all going into a muss. If she didn't watch herself, she'd look ugly. "I talked to your daddy, and he made advances! On me! I'm a quarter or two classier than him and _you_ -- LaFyette, I'm too classy for you, too!"

I seriously was beginning to figger she was either crazy, or the dumbest broad on earth. She really sounded ... surprised. Like my pops, despite bein' the slickest pimp in 'Hattan, wouldn't think to make a pass at _her._ Like she, bein' a whore, was too classy for anybody. Like there really was anything between us.

"You's a freakin' whore," I retorted darkly, rubbing the side of my face. If I'da been smart, like Racetrack, I woulda said somethin' along the lines of "yeah, baby, you're way too good for me, so I don't think we can do this thing." But nobody said I was smart.

She gasped a little, like I was accusin' her of something she ain't never done. Right about then I figgered she was stupid.

"LaFyette, that is _unkind!_ Why, I don't even know you! What would make you so cruel?"

I searched my pockets for a cigarette. It was soggy from the rain. "Bein' sober."

I didn't even get the chance to try the cigarette with a match. She hit me something awful again. My face was really stinging now; she didn't even have the decency to trade hands when hitting me, so I got both slaps on the same cheek. Stupid slut. When I was able to see through my watering eye again, I gave her a dirty look.

"You nasty sonuvabitch," she was pretty much through with the whole sweet Georgia virgin gig by now.

I winced because my face hurt trying to look like I didn't care.

"I hate you, LaFyette! I hope you die penniless and homeless and ugly."

Somethin' tells me her wish'll come true. Maybe not ugly. I mean, I'm no Jack Kelly, but I can get a girl with a smile. You don't always have to kiss ass to get a piece of it. That's just what my weasel-faced pops said 'cause he was ugly. Ugly people say stuff like that to feel better about bein' ugly. Like, they think they get to be smart 'cause they ain't good-lookin'. Which is shit. There's a lotta ugly, stupid people -- Oscar and Morris and De and Weasel, to name a few.

Anyway.

Then she turned and stormed out of the room with this little, sobbing gasp in her throat. She acted like she might slam the door, but she didn't, and soon I heard her footsteps a little ways down the hall. I couldn't figure out why she stopped. It was like she expected me to follow her or something. I groaned. She'd probably nab me on my way out the door.

I thought I'd go through the window.

And then I heard it. A kind of moan that really didn't sound like anything at first. Then I figured it out, when it came again. Maybe the first moan wasn't anything, but the second one was definitely ...

_"Blink ..."_

Bingo.

Hey, I thought that sonuvabitch was goin' to 5th Avenue? That's what started this whole damn mess. I couldn't figure what the hell he was doin' here, if his dame was meetin' him at my sellin' spot. I'd find out, though. And I'd show him a thing or two. Yeah, really get him back. I could feel a dark smirk -- one probably as good as Jack's -- crawlin' up the side of my face. I started whistlin', because somethin' was lookin' up for the first time since Race bought me breakfast. And, maybe, I mighta said ...

"I hope you die, Blink," to the tune of the song I was whistlin'. Then again, maybe I didn't.

With a big grin, I opened up the door.


	4. T T

_Author's Note: Ya'll better appreciate this -- I had to type this one-handed. Damn cast. Anyway, I knew somewhere, hidden away, I had the next chapter of this all written up. I just couldn't remember where. I decided it was lost, and disdained to rewriting it sometime. Then, today, I discovered this notebook in my locker -- and there it was! Just in time. So, since I don't have to think this up as I type, I'm updating this and postponing an update on Twenty One. Moseph, if you're reading -- I love you, dahling, and the smokin' reviews ya left! I got an awesome A/N in mind, so be patient. I haven't forgotten you!_

* * *

De's said it would be better for me if I'da been more like Pops than like my ma, when she acknowledges that _she's_ not my ma.She says, "you're hust like her -- beautiful but cold as ice. Least yah pops is a nice fella, even if he don't got yah looks." I already told you De is stupid. Pops is charming -- but only 'cause he has to be if he wants to get his way. He wouldn't be nice to anybody if he didn't have to ask for everything. So De's wrong about both these things -- Pops isn't a nice guy, and I _can_ be charming like him if I want. 

So when I walked out of that room, I met Belle's eyes not quite smilin', with my eyes all wide and brown and glassy -- jeeze, I can work my eyes. Her whole expression got ... un-angry and un-pissed and she looked almost ... sorry. Screw bein' a "nice guy" and "cute in his own way" like Pops. I'll take my poppy-whore ma and her looks any day.

"Belle ..." all plaintive and pleading. I had this dame in the bag. She threw her arms around me and touched my hair and all that.

"It's alright, LaFyette. It's fine."

Being cute and sweet means never havin' to say you're sorry.

"I'm needin' you to help me, Belle."

She started nodding immediately, releasing me and nodding some more, and holding my hands and nodding, just in case I didn't get those first two times.

"I'll do anything. You know that."

And I just about told her that was not the impression I was gettin' ten minutes ago. But I was goin' through a smart spell, so I didn't. Much as Race drives me up a wall from time to time, I gotta admit -- he's an inspiration.

"Listen, sweetheart --"

God, she loved that.

"There's this guy, wears an eyepatch, folks call him Kid Blink --"

"Ginger's fella," Belle supplied eagerly. "She says he's a real sweet guy."

"Yeah?" kinda surprised-like. "Well he ain't. He's a dirty thief and I need to take care 'a him."

Her eyes narrowed, immediately on my side. Dames is so stupid.

"He's in her room right now."

"How do we get him out?"

Belle thought about this for a sec. I was more'n a little impatient, but I didn't show. Look at me -- what a charmer.

Her eyes lit up.

"She's got this other fella -- this Irish kid from Brooklyn -- Connor ... Connelly or some damn thing --"

Conlon, but anyway.

"When he comes around and she's got Blink -- she has me knock on the door three times, loud, and she tells Blink she's got a john and makes him go down the fire escape. If you wait there while I knock, you'll have him."

I kissed her, and for the record, I meant it.

"Thanks, Belle." She was practically glowin'. "Say, you got a john tonight?"

She got all sad -- guess you could say the glow dimmed. Wow, I'm so clever.

"Yeah ..."

I told you the day was a bum.

"Ah'right. Nevermind, then. Knock on the door."

I started for the outside door, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me up against her. She was touchin' my hair and lookin' into my eyes and fixin' herself into a position that was really distractin' me from gettin' Blink. Her fingers kinda trailed off 'a my hair and down my neck and the buttons on my shirt and ..._ jeeze_, girl ...

"I'm free right now, LaFyette."

And it didn't bother me, her callin' me that right then.

"Ah, sweetie, I don't got time ..."

But I couldn't really remember _why_ I didn't got no time.

"Blink can wait a few minutes."

And I kinda thought that sounded like an insult, but she was whisperin' in my ear, and then kissin' my neck and okay for a few minutes and I picked her up and hauled her back to her room.

Now you might go thinkin' this was some good luck and changed the day completely. I mean -- a gorgeous, talented dame and a soft, clean bed 'cause she usually entertains bazillionaires or whatever. What two-bit guy in New York wouldn't want that? Sure, we all would. But we bottom-dwellers, much as we dream about this high life with feather beds and silky sheets and dames that are smooth from shaving, we learned that no high-falutin' thing comes free. We learned that you can't trust anything -- especially sweet deals 'cause nothin' comes sweet.

Like here -- alright, I was doin' a blonde dame with smooth legs and a Southern accent and long nails diggin' in my back in a good way, but I hadn't sold a damn pape all day. Sure it was good, but it wasn't gonna get me supper tonight. In fact, I probably wasn't even gonna eat the next day. And while I was sure fine with that thought going into the room, and even still a little fine with it when I rolled off and looked at her, all gasping and sweating, I was definitely not fine when that ugly cherub clock on her wall chimed.

There I was, naked as the day I was born, starin' at this dirty painting on hung on the ceiling, and it was four o'clock. All the schoolboys woulda bought their papers by now. God knows where Crutchy was, and Blink ... Blink!

I jumped up and started gettin' dressed. Belle stared at me like she was offended or something.

"Where're you goin'?"

"I'm gettin' Blink, remember?"

She pouted at me, but I didn't care. "LaFyette --"

"It's Skittery," I told her, and I musta been a little short, 'cause she was all superior with:

"It wasn't Skittery a minute ago."

Whatever. Like that was somethin' to hold over my head. Where were my shoes?

"Lookin' sor something, sugar?"

Somehow, she managed to get my shoes. Somehow, she managed to be dangling them outside the window, just over the railing of the fire escape on the right side. She'da have to have a freaking long arm to reach all the way across. Though there mighta been something funny about the situation if she had.

"Belle."

Careful, Skits, don't be stupid.

"Give me the shoes."

She laughed, loosening her grip on the laces.

"Belle!"

Plead. You gotta plead -- she's a dame.

"C'mon, they're my only pair."

"They're vile," she commented, giggling. "You oughtta wash 'em up. Oh, I see a puddle right there."

Bitch.

"Belle, I will soak you if you don't bring those inside now."

"Soak me? Dear Lord, I don't know what that means!"

I don't like games.

"Belle, I'm givin' you's the count 'a ten."

And she looked at me kinda defiant and testing. She sorta dangled my shoes, swingin' 'em, and one dropped. I don't know if she did that on purpose or by accident, but she sure as hell shouldn'ta done it.

I tackled her, took her to the ground and hit her across the face. It shocked her, made her stop laughing. Then her eyes narrowed, like she might kill me or somethin', and she was struggling and elbowing and scratching and ... shitsonuvafuckingwhore kneeing like the cheapshot dame she was. I rolled over in pain, and she was up on her feet, kickin' me in the chest and arms and whatever else I wasn't protecting. I reached up and grabbed her ankle, jerking her to the floor. She glared at me, picked up my other shoe and hurled it out the window. I heard it clatter against the fire escape and ... splash.

God, I hated her.

"_Why_ did you do that?" I demanded, hoping it scared her.

"You hit me!" It didn't.

"Not before you threw my shoe in a fucking puddle!"

Her eyes narrowed. "It was a joke. Lord!"

"They're my only pair!" I yelled. "I told you that!"

"So? You don't hit ladies."

Oh, teachin' manners to _me._ "You _ain't_ no lady."

Her eyes widened, jaw dropping so her mouth didn't feel small in comparison. Oh, here it came ...

"If you think, for one lousy minute, I'm gonna marry you, you have lost your mind."

She closed her mouth and scoffed at me, nose in the air -- actin' all superior while sittin' naked on the floor.

I had to laugh at her, swinging my leg over the windowsill and feeling the cold, wet metal on my bare feet. I kept myself from lettin' out a yell.

"If you thought I was ever gonna marry you in the first place, you're nuts."

I can only imagine the look on that stupid dame's face. I swung my other foot down and crawled out into the open air, glancing down four floors to my shoes gettin' all ruined and rotten in the puddle below. I started climbin' down the ladder.

"Yeah. LaFyette? Is that so?"

I looked up through the grates of metal to where she was hangin' out of the window, hollerin'. Now, why would she do that? When ya're beat, ya're beat. The end. See, dames don't know when they're beat. They keep pushin' and naggin', thinking they's making progress, when really all they're gettin' to be is annoying as hell.

I didn't answer her and kept climbin'.

"Well I hope you slip and break you're neck! Do you hear me? I hope you die!"

Blink was long-gone.


	5. E

_Author's Note: Every time I decide to read this story, I remember how much I love it, and love writing it. So here's another chapter, just 'cause I like ya!_

* * *

"Is that you, Skittery?" 

I told you how there's only two people that can call me by my real name, right? Well, the only one around who I'm actually okay with callin' me LaFyette, calls me Skittery. That's my Pops, in case ya're slow. See, in case this day wasn't bad enough, my old man has to be the cherry on top. Seriously, what're the odds he's the next alley down from the brothel Belle works? He could tell I was in a mood from clear across the alley. It was in his eyes, once I was able to see 'em. My pops can't resist a good reason to be a pain in the ass, especially if the person he's annoying can't do nothin' about it. He's a real jackass to all his whores, 'cause they can't talk back. And he's always been a sonuvabitch to me. Don't get me wrong, I like my pops and everything -- s'long as I don't gotta see him more'n once a month.

That day, I'd already seen him for the month 'a April. And with my ruined shoes in my hands, walkin' on my toes to protect my feet 'cause they'd gone soft from wearin' the shoes, I was in no mood to see the bastard a second time.

"Yeah it's me, Pops."

He grinned. I could see his ridiculous smile from here. He's got like ... short teeth, or long gums or somethin'. No matter how big or little he smiles, if he opens his mouth, it looks like he's grinnin' like a colored. I tried to take slower steps. Maybe he'd get impatient and walk away. But I don't got that kinda luck; not any day, and especially not _that_ day. He reached into his pocket and got a cigarette, lightin' it right up in front 'a me. Right then, I coulda really used a cigarette, but my pops is selfish. He'd never offer anything to anyone, 'less it was gonna benefit him more.

"What'd you do to yah shoes?" He stared at the ruined leather in my hand, kinda almost smilin', but trying to keep it down because even a knothead like him would know that's rude.

I rolled my eyes, throwin' the damn useless things to the ground. "I didn't do nothin' --"

Then I really slipped up. Blame it on Belle. She really pissed me off.

" -- one of the worthless dames in Russe's did it."

Pops' eyebrows rose, and I knew I'd really screwed up. I ain't even gonna repeat the cusses goin' through my head. I was really kickin' myself then. Even _I_ wished I was dead.He stared at me for a sec, just to make sure I knew that he knew that I knew I'd screwed up. Then it came.

"Russe's? Whatcha doin' at Russe's?"

I shrugged, my shoulders suddenly stiff. "Nothin', Pops. Lookin' for a guy."

And I thought maybe I could get passed him to the other side 'a the alley, but I was obviously very wrong. Pops took hold 'a my arm, and that was it. He could let go, and I had to stay. Maybe he didn't pay for my meals, or give me a place to stay, or even care to see me half the time, but he was still my Pops. And somewhere, in the back 'a my head I think, I'm still a little ... scared 'a him. Kay, not scared. Intimidated. He's my pops. The guy who used to spank me when I tried to jostle the lock on the bathroom door so it wouldn't close. The fella who, when I was bad, would make me go to the opium houses and bars in search 'a my ma. I don't know what he could do to me now. But he's still got that up on me. He raised me. Kinda.

He looked at me, leaning against the wall and suckin' on his cigarette, and I could see how he'd degenerated. So Pops's never been a bulky fella. Since forever, her's been a toothpick of a guy, a little muscle in his arms, but nothin' else. He's even skinnier now. He always had thin, black greasy hair, but now it's thinner -- his browline's further up his head. I'm glad I got my ma's hair -- thick and brown and never greasy, 'less you put some in. I had to notice, then, how ridiculous his moustache was. Like a line, it's so thin above his lip. His bright clothes was fading, fraying. Pimps got a short life, just like whores. I realized, right then, my pops probably had a disease. His skin was almost yellow. He coughed out a cloud of smoke, and it hit me, right then, that he was dyin'. There wasn't a _probably_ in my head; he really _was_ dying, slowly. And I decided right then, if I had to work in the fucking sewars, I would kill myself before I'd be a pimp.

"You was at Russe's lookin' for a guy, and a dame, just for no real reason, a dame throws yah shoes into a puddle?"

I cleared my throat. "Weird things happen."

Pops taught me how to lie.

"And that's a fuckin' bad excuse," he hissed back through his weird teeth. He spit out the cigarette, snubbing it into the ground. Pops is a wasteful pig. He can't even enjoy a whole cigarette; he's gotta throw half of it away. "Were you doin' a Russe girl? Just tell me straight up, Skittery."

He made up my name. When I was a kid I used to tremble somethin' aweful. The word a normal smart person would use is jittery, but Pops ain't like that. He called me Skittery 'cause 'a that. Also 'cause I had to scram outta places fast sometimes, and he'd tell me to skitter outta there. But anyway.

"Straight up?" I shoulda lied. "Yeah, Pops. That's what I was doin'. Then I pissed the bitch off and she threw my shoes out the window."

He hit me, right across the face. Just so you know, Pops never hit me in the face when I was a kid. He waited until I was officially out 'a the brothel before he considered me man enough to be backhanded. Don't ask me about his logic. The man's a drunk, among other things.

"Where the hell'd you get the money for a Russe whore? Huh? You use your own money on whores?"

His face was like an inch from mine, and I could still smell the tobacco heavy on his breath, maybe a trace of rum. I don't know. His breath's always so rotten, there's no way to tell. But he was glarin' at me with his cold, ugly blue eyes. He's the only person I know, guy or dame, with blue eyes that are ugly. They're just between gray and blue, and generally I don't even think of 'em as a color. They're just ... cold. That's Pops' eye color.

I was crumblin' under the pressure of his eyes, but I shook my head and tried to look tough so he'd back away a little. "No, I didn't pay her."

He hit me again, this time with his fist, and I just about toppled over. I caught myself before I could fall over. I don't know why it always stings worse when Pops hits me. I held onto my jaw, opening and closing my mouth a couple times to feel whether or not it had popped outta place. There was something wet on my fingers when I touched it, and realized I had three little cuts right along the bottom of my cheek. I shot a glare right up to him, gripping my face like a moron.

"Shit, use the other hand!" I growled, watching as he cleaned my blood off of his rings. His eyes narrowed, and he raised his hand, like he might hit me again.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You'd think livin' in a brothel twelve fucking years of your life, you might have a little bit of fuckin' compassion! Didn't I raise you no better'n that? You pay the dame, LaFyette! She ain't got no other livelihood!"

I was still tryin' to keep some of the blood still in my face. "It wasn't work, it was ... Remember that dame Belle who thought I was marryin' her?"

His eyes got real wide -- an angry kinda wide that meant he'd hit me if I didn't talk fast. _"Are_ you marryin' her?"

I rolled my eyes, just so he could see how ridiculous a question that was. "No, Pops, I ain't marryin' nobody."

Ironic as it is, the bastard had to hit me again -- this time right upside the head. You can see why I don't like seein' him.

"Then you pay the dame, Skittery!"

I wasn't about to argue with him. It would just make my head throb longer tonight. The way it was, I wasn't gonna be lookin' normal for weeks. I could just picture how swollen up my jaw was gonna be.

"Fine, Pops. I'm sorry."

"No," Pops shook his head, not even lookin' at me, he was thinking so much. He opened up his jacket, revealing the heavy, purple silk vest he's worn since before I can even remember. He says silk can stop a bullet, and the cowboys and outlaws and sheriffs and all them out roughin' it in the West wear silk vests so they can survive gun fights. I don't think I've ever seen him without that vest -- I bet he screws in that vest. He reached across the vest and into the pocket in his jacket, grabbing a thick band of bills. He licked his thumb and picked out five of 'em, handing them to me. "Go pay the girl. And stay the hell away from Russe's. Alright? You want a dame, come see me. I ain't much good for ya, but I'm good for that, huh?"

The blood on my face was dryin' into scabs, so I let go of it. The way he said that last thing -- I don't know why, but it kinda made me feel sad, in a way. Pops's never appologized for nothin' in his entire life, 'least not to me. But in all I can remember, that's gotta be as close as it gets. I looked him in the eye, and kinda nodded. He looked away real quick, and kinda cleared his throat like he was nervous. He dug in his pocket and get a faded red handkerchief, holdin' it out. It was like he couldn't look at me.

"Wipe up yah face. You're a mess. Nobody's gonna want a pape from a mug like that."

I held the piece 'a cloth in my hand, slowly bringing it up to my face. "Nobody's gonna want a pape now, anyway."

He sighed, turning his head to look down the alley at nothing in particular. I figured, if he died -- whether the next day, or a hundred years from then -- I'd always remember him like that, with his head turned as far away as he could, starin' without even looking for something. I think Pops spent most of his life starin' without even looking.

"I'll see you around," he managed, turning completely around and walking off. I stood there just for a second, holding his handkerchief to my face, thinkin'.

Pops is dyin'. He's been dyin' for years. But it was that day, that awful, bum day, that it finally got through my thick skull. And suddenly I felt cheated. Like maybe there was something good about him I was always ignoring -- something that maybe wasn't good, but at least felt bad that he wasn't good. It just ... sounded like he had that part of him, when he said he hadn't been much good for me. And ... maybe, if he felt sorry -- not just about bein' a bum father, but also about everything else he did -- maybe if he knew he was dyin', and was really, really sorry about the kinda fella he'd spent his life bein' ... well then maybe there's hope, even for rats like him. And if there's hope for a guy like Pops, then maybe there's hope for me.

He looked so bad that day. So gray and yellow and pale ... like death itself, I bet. And I felt really bad for him right then, just bein' alive to barely look like he was. I mean, he looked so awful ... and I bet he felt like it, too. It had to be hell to be draggin' on like that.

"I hope you die, Pops," I almost whispered, turning to start on to the main road. "I hope you die so you don't have to keep on like this."

I put my hands in my pockets, like an instinct almost, and then I remembered. Pops had just given me five bucks.

* * *

_I based Pops, at least physically, on one of my favorite actors of all time, Kevin J. O'Connor in his role of "Beni" in The Mummy. So if you need a visual for the guy, go look him up._


	6. R

_Author's Note: Well, I got a sparatic urge to write on this story, so guess what? I'm updating! So, just like I told stress in my review, I'm pimping for her new story, _Sin City_, because I'm hooked and it would be a crime against the fandom to not continue it. So, you, yes--you, go and read it, drop a line and tell her how amazing it is. I'm telling you, I don't do a whole lot of reading on here because, to be bluntly honest, only like 5 of it is worth a look. And I would not be telling you to read this story unless I thought it was worth reading. So get on it, and for God's sake, REVIEW it, because good stories deserve good reception. Alright, I'm done._

* * *

Five dollars. I don't think you can even, like, fit it into your head how much money that is to a fella like me. Five bucks, right in my pocket -- that's five hundred papes, that's what that is. I can't even ... I mean, unless you live like me, I don't think you can ever get what I mean. Five dollars, and they was all mine. 'Cause if you's stupid enough to think I was gonna do what Pops said and give 'em to Belle, then you just don't deserve to say you know me. I mean, okay so maybe not doin' what my pops said to do with the money is by all technicality stealin', but ... come on, I wasn't goin' back into Russe's. And ... well, he couldn't really mean to give five bucks to some ungrateful hooker he didn't even know, but let me go without. I'm his son, you kow? And, it's kinda his job to take care 'a me. And ... Just stop that, ah'right? I'm takin' the money and that's all there is to it. I hadn't sold a damn pape all day. 

So I'm walkin' along real careful because the shit in the alleys and streets could be enough to cut you open -- bleed ya to death if ya don't keep both eyes open. Ha, one in Blink's case. Bastard. You know it may sound funny, but by that time, I really didn't give a damn anymore. I mean, let's face it, I had a pretty shit day, but at that time, it really didn't make a difference no more. So much had happened; seriously, I was just so bum-tired it really wasn't such a big deal no more. Right about then, the one thing that mattered was gettin' back to the Lodgin' House and sleepin' for the next ... oh, I dunno, three days. Five bucks, jeeze. I'm tellin' ya, suddenly, I coulda kissed Blink ... So maybe not kissed him. I ain't that sort 'a guy. But I would buy him a pack 'a cigarettes or somethin' with my money. You know I'm thinkin', in some weird, round-about, confusing sort 'a way, if Blink hadn't been a dirty crook this mornin', I never woulda gotten five bucks from Pops.

I mean, I'm goin' along with a honest-to-God grin on my face, and that hadn't happened yet that rotten day. It was goin' on six o'clock, and the air was gettin' real still but cool, and everythin' was startin' to get darker, and I just ... well you know it's just ... nicer out when it's later. You know, just before night ... it's nicer. And besides having to keep my eyes down to make sure I wasn't gonna hurt my feet, it was real ... you know, settlin'. I was thinkin' about then I need to do this more often -- not have rotten days, I'm gonna try to keep avoidin' those -- but go out on a walk, just before it gets dark. I can see this bein' a real healthy way to clear a guy's head, you know? I mean, it's even quiet -- in New York, it's not the same quiet I s'pose it is other places, but it's still ... a kinda calm that just don't happen on a regular basis.

And I'm out there, and I'm just feelin' real calm and cool and ... real settled. I even relaxed for about five minutes, walking real slow and watchin' my step. I don't know why I relaxed. I shoulda known none of it was gonna last on that day. I'm bein' real careful, watchin' my step and all, and I hear these footsteps behind me -- kinda ... whaddya call? Off-kilter (I'm not gonna lie, I don't know what that means, but I read it in the paper last week and thought it sounds like the kinda word I wanna say more) -- but they're definitely followin' me. I kinda glanced over my shoulder, and by that time, I really wasn't in no mood to hold back a whiny sigh, even if it was real girlish. Morris. Wouldn't that just figure.

"Hey, Skittery!" he said it genuinely happy, and his face was all grinnin', and he tripped over a crack that wasn't even really stickin' out. About that time I came to figure out that Morris was plastered. I had to wonder where he was able to get liquor so early in the day.

I've never seen that guy so pepped up, and to be blunt-honest, it scared me worse'n if the fella had come at me swingin'. "Hey, Morris."

Somehow in his, uh, state 'a bein', he managed to sling his arm across my shoulders. He leaned real hard into me, and his breath reeked like cheap whiskey. I glanced at him once, just so he'd know I was meanin' to be friendly, but I wanted to keep my eyes down so he didn't step on my feet in his big, clumbsy shoes. That would just be my luck. A limp to match me bare toes.

"Hey, hey," Morris kinda slurred out, joltin' to a stop and pullin' me back with him. "I got a thing ... here ..."

Oh, God. I'm not even gonna touch that one.

"Wait -- jus-just wait a second."

He let go 'a me long enough to feel all over the front of his body. It took him thirty seconds longer'n it took me to figure out whatever he'd been tippin' back wasn't with him no more. Wouldn't that be my luck. The one time a Delancey's drunk enough to be a nice guy, he don't got the means to share. And right about then I really coulda used a drink. I mean, I don't drink much ... Drink's expensive, and I just don't got the dough. But you wait out back at a bar long enough, when they's bringin' a new shipment in -- you get some fellas together and create a distraction -- well, let's just say we gotten a case once or twice without gettin' caught. It occured to me about then that I got five bucks, and if I want some whiskey to myself this week, then I'll just get it.

"Ah ... well I was gonna let you take a slip--a sip 'a whiskey, but it ain't ... Ain't ... Hey, Skittery!"

Man he looks damn stupid when he grins. No wonder he's always scowlin'. I forced a little smile, though right about then I'm thinkin' he wouldn't know if I was beatin' the hell outta him or even there.

"Hey, Morris."

He shook his head about six times more'n he had to, and I'm thinkin' that made him a little dizzy 'cause he started leanin' even harder against me after he done it.

"Skitts, you're like my best friend, you know that?"

Ah, gee. Now don't that just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

"Yeah, Morris, I know."

All them times when he was chasin' me down, hopin' to beat the crap outta me -- yep, that sealed the deal for me.

"I mean ... man, you's just one 'a the best folks I know."

Makes me wanna get a house with the guy. Get old 'n play checkers or ... yeah, I got nothin'.

Morris stopped all 'a the sudden, turnin' his whole body around to look at me. God, this was priceless.

"And we -- I mean we -- why don't we do stuff, Skitts? We could have some good times ..."

Oh, yeah. Some damn good times. Jeeze, was this guy smokin' a hookah, too?

"Well we'll do somethin' sometime, Morris."

Like he'd remember that tomorrow. But he was real smiley right then -- he really liked me sayin' we'd go get us some good times. What a mook, right?

About this time I was thinkin' this's gotta be the best part 'a this rotten day. I mean, here I had a Delancey makin' a total ass 'a himself, bein' all admirin' and shit, and while I did wanna lose the guy sometime in here, it was just real funny. I mean, right about then, I was actually full-on amused, and the last time that'd happened was when I was gettin' laid. It had to happen, though. There'd be no point in me even considerin' this a bum day if Morris's dumbass mood wasn't about to get ruined. Just like when I was screwin' Belle, nothin' too good can last more'n fifteen minutes.

All the sudden he started snifflin', and I'm lookin' at the guy, and I just plum can't believe he's got tears running down his face. What the hell ... one minute he's the happiest I've ever seen a Delancey, the next he's blubberin' like a dame?

"Skitts ... ah, Skitts, man, do ya ever just wish you was dead? Didja ever just hope you'd die?"

And all the sudden he's ... he's huggin' me and ballin'. And I really don't know what to do. Here I got Morris holdin' onto me and cryin' ... like really loudly. Screamin' almost. And, 'a course, outta nowhere a whole shitload 'a folks have to start walkin' down the street. So now I got people givin' me real funny looks, and I don't really know what to do but to glare back at 'em ... And, okay, so he's cryin' and tryin' to say somethin' I don't understand even a little bit, and I feel ... well you know I'm feelin' bad for the guy. Even if he is just drunk. So I kinda pat him on the back, but only 'cause I want him to let go 'a me.

"Well, well, well."

I'd know that sarcastic little smirkin' voice anywhere. Racetrack.

Fuck.

I'mnever gonna live this down.

The round 'a snickers told me he wasn't alone, and I really, really didn't wanna look up right then.

"Ah, looks like Skitts was meetin' himself a dame, too."

I'm gonna murder that bastard.

Right about then I stopped feelin' bad for Morris and shoved him off 'a me, right to the ground. He was still blubberin' and everything, but I had pretty much stopped carin'. I glared up at Racetrack, waitin' for it.

"Ahh," he could barely choke it out, he was laughin' so hard. I could feel my hands curlin' into really tough fists right about then. "Now, look, fellas, we just gone and ruined a beautiful moment."

"Race," I said as hard as I could, my teeth real gritted. I don't know why I was even tryin'. There's no intimidating Racetrack Higgins. "Don't even."

He looked around at the other guys -- Specs and Dutchy and Pie Eater -- makin' sure everyone had full attention on him. I gotta wonder why he don't go into show business.

"No, no, Skittery. I ain't gonna give you a hard time. I -- I just ain't."

Bullshit.

The other fellas were all chortlin' like hyenas, and Racetrack was calmin' 'em down. Not seriously, 'a course. Just to make 'em quiet when he --

"No, now you guys, we can't blame Skitts here. After all, the ugly ones're the hardest to break it off with!"

Now just then, I did two things I really regretted once it was done and couldn't be taken back. I guess ... just so you know, I feel real bad about it to this day.

But, I mean, why would Race go and say somethin' like that? Granted, it was pretty damn hilarious, but ... look, I had no shoes, and my pops'd hit me like three times, and ... well do I really gotta go everythin' again?

Before I even knew what was goin' on, Race was in the gutter holdin' his face, and Morris was cryin' but painfully this time. I took one look at Racetrack, all shocked but, you know actually pretty hurt ... and I felt a throbbin' pain in me foot and knew I'd kicked that Delancey for good measure. And all the sudden this ... this guilt came over me, and it felt like my insides was my outsides, and I couldn't ... I just couldn't take it and I was ... runnin'. Runnin' down the street and not even givin' a damn about me feet at that time.


	7. Y

_Author's Note: Skittery, it's ... it's ... it's ..._

_Skittery: Over?_

_Yes! ((sobs))_

_Skittery: You're retarded. All this story was was a big lousy fest of my day. It's about time I go to bed or, like, get wasted 'cause that was one sucky day._

_It wasn't ... THAT bad ... Okay, maybe it was. _

_Skittery: So how 'bout you just finish it, kay?_

_FINE. Just as soon as you thank the reviewers. Deep breath, now --_

_Skittery: ((mumbles)) Yeah, maybe you should take a deep breath ..._

_I don't know what that means._

_Skitery: Don't. Worry. About it. Anyway. Ahem. **Thanks to! Wisecracher88! Sprints 100! ella eternity! Crazy Pink Hat Girl! Daisy Miller! miss-anonymous13! Janers! madmbutterfly713! time is a waste of life! lucyrocks73! Spadey! LateOrliBloomer! Stephanie! SakiSaki! ShitteryGitUp! stress!**_

_((sobbing)) It's all ... so ... magical!!_

_Skittery: Shut the hell up._

* * *

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go back to the Lodgin' House, but ... I mean, did you see the mess it was all in 'cause 'a me? Racetrack prolly hated my guts, and the fellas with him did too, I bet. You just don't go around hittin' Race. I told you that. I told you I think it's a real low and tacky thing to do, and it was. I just ... I wanted to go back and just go to bed. My head was hurtin' real bad and my feet was sore. I stopped walkin' altogether and just leaned against a building, focusin' on breathin' so I wouldn't do a sissy thing like cryin'. Wouldn't that just top it off? Well, they could throw what they wanted at me, but I'll be damned if I start ballin' like a baby. 

I reached into my pocket, only to remember that I was outta cigarettes. I had to snort and be sarcastic about that, 'cause some things just can't be taken seriously. I mean, if I woulda let havin' no cigarettes bend me more outta shape than I already was, I mighta just slammed my head against the brick 'a that building. I was about to that point, anyway. So there I am, standin' with my hand in the pocket 'a my shirt in a real unnatural-lookin' way, and I just start laughin'. I just keep laughin' and laughin' and laughin', and I swear to you at least three dames actually looked at me and crossed the street to walk on the other side. I laughed about that, too. And maybe it's real weird I was crackin' up, but just think about it for a second. Just put yahself in my place. I hadn't sold a pape, I'd hurt Crutchy's feelings _and _hit Racetrack, I'd run into De, Belle, _and_ my pops -- two of which gave me a beatin' that was gonna be sore tomorrow, I never did get Blink, my shoes was ruined ... oh, yeah, and I'd been seen by practically the whole city 'a New York huggin' a Delancey, and the ugly one at that. Not that I find either 'a the Delanceys particularly attractive, but let's be fair about this -- Morris's face looks like it was put together by a Blink with his eye closed. I mean, he's got one ugly mug, right?

God, I should just shoot myself now. Look at me, goin' on about how much uglier Morris is. Like gettin' groped by Oscar woulda been _that_ much better. And, _no_, by the way, Morris _didn't_ "grope" me, just so that rumor don't get around. Jeeze ... you know what I mean, right? It woulda been a losin' deal no matter what. That's all I'm sayin'.

I think it'd be best if we forget I ever said any 'a that.

So I'm leanin' against this wall, still laughin' a little bit at how incredibly not-funny the whole day's been, and who should walk by with that irritatin' smirk and that stupid cowboy hat to boot. Under normal circumstances, I woulda groaned or shot the bastard a real good, "leave-me-alone" glare. I mean, okay, I don't have that big of a problem with Jack. We been over this once already, right? Yeah. You just understand the fella gets on my nerves from time to time, and I was obviously in no mood. But 'cause I just couldn't afford to get any madder, I laughed even louder and held out my hand to the poor, confused sonuvaKelly, steppin' right in front 'a his path and givin' him the most obnoxious hello since ... I don't know when.

"Heya! Cowboy! Where're you off to, Jacky-Boy?"

He stared at me, mouth all open and eyes kinda wide and dazed -- and that really was worth laughin' at. Like not in the nutso way I was laughin' about stuff before. "Hey, Skittery ... Good to see ya ...?"

I gave him a big, cheesy grin and slung my arm over his shoulders, skippin' along with his really slow, fumblin' steps. Man was I takin' him for a ride. He musta thought I really lost it. I mean, he was downright concerned. He stopped the both 'a us, lookin' me real long and serious in the eye. That was pretty hilarious, too.

"Skits, you been drinkin'?"

Now that's just funny.

I shook my head, tryin' to start us walkin' again, and right about then I tripped on my toes, and my foot caught on some sharp thing or another, and this real bad pain shot through my leg. Jack caught me, which I guess makes him bein' there better than him not, but he was also there to hear me scream much louder than I normally woulda. He stopped us again, lookin' me over real careful. I gotta say, I was actually pretty surprised. I mean, since when did Jack Kelly give a damn about me? I ain't funny like Race or pathetic like Crutchy, and I don't worship every little thing he does like Mush. There's really no reason for him to even pay any attention to me ... 'cept that his bunk's right above mine, and he steps on me_ every_ damn morning ... and, I guess, 'cause I'm the best freakin' pitch player in the Lodgin' House, and he'd be nuts to partner with anyone but me ... and, 'cause ... well, we do live together, and been livin' in the same place for years now ...

Just then, I really did feel like shit. I mean, if I didn't feel bad before, I was then. 'Cause Jack Kelly -- the guy I hate and think about killin' somedays -- looked really damn worried about me. And suddenly I was real relieved, too. 'Cause if a guy I don't even like so much, and am usually kinda mean to, like Jack could be that worried, then maybe ... well, maybe Race wouldn't be so sore at me as he oughtta be, ya know?

"Are you okay?" he asked me, real quiet and serious. And I smiled at him -- for real this time.

"Yeah, it's just ... some stuff's happened."

Jack smiled to, but in a sad way. "Bad stuff?"

I shrugged and let go 'a his shoulders, crossin' my arms to look tougher. I guess at that point it didn't really matter, anyway. I think it was for me rather'n what I wanted him to think about me.

"The usual," I retorted, kinda gruff so he wouldn't ask any more about it. And Jack kinda laughed in the same way he smiled.

"You look like hell, Skitts."

I snorted, wonderin' if he had any cigarettes on hand. "Thanks."

He shook his head, and let it go. I was real surprised he let it go, too. Jack likes to nose in folks' business. He's a con just like his pops; he snoops so he can use it against ya later on. But I guess even cons can act like human bein's here and there. We walked along, just quiet. It took me a few minutes to figger out we was goin' to the Lodgin' House; I mean, okay, I had_ just _come from that direction ... but ... okay, fine. I was just not payin' much attention. Is that a crime? Just 'cause I didn't notice don't make me an idiot.

I stopped soon as I realized where we was at. I couldn't really go in there, ya know. I mean, Race ... and Crutchy ... and with Race's big mouth, everyone prolly thought I was a regular jerk.

"You comin'?"

I shook my head, and just then Jack decided to be his usual pain in the ass self and dragged me through the door. Since you already got enough to give me a hard time about, I ain't gonna tell ya that I fought him every step. 'Cause, _obviously_, if I actually woulda fought him every step, I wouldn'ta ended up in the Lodgin' House. Next tah Mush, I'm probably the best boxer in the Lower East Side. I guess boxin' don't count for much on bum days. I wasn't really in the mood to hit Jack, either. I figger, I'd done enough damage for the day.

The fellas was all there, sittin' around, havin' cigarettes. My tongue was actually itchin'. I needed that smoke so bad ... but I didn't have the balls to ask 'em for one. The look Dutchy was givin' me alone was enough to make a fella turn around and head back out the door. But Jack had a death-grip on my shoulder, so I was kinda stuck. I forced a smile 'cause frownin' wasn't gettin' me nowhere.

"Heya, fellas!" Jack called out. He got some kinda mumbled, "Hey, Jack"'s in return. Not a "Hey, Skittery" to be heard. I knew I oughtta go --

"Anybody upstairs?" he asked, as if nothin' was the matter. Jack Kelly couldn't feel tension if it was gnawin' his legs off.

Snipeshooter shrugged; the only one thoughtless enough to say somethin'. "I don't think so."

And then Jack was shovin' me up the stairs, standin' at the railing and urgin' me on like I was a little kid and had to be told to go to bed. It wasn't any 'a his damn business if I wanted to go to bed. What makes Jack think he's gotta take care 'a everybody?

"Go up and get some sleep," he told me, and had to add, just so he wouldn't sound like a pansy: "Nobody wants tah deal with ya when ya're nuts."

I was really too tired to act pissed off at that.

I just went up the stairs and collapsed on my bunk. My eyes was closed and I was even relaxin' for a good five minutes afore ...

"BOO!"

_"Holy shit!"_ I yelled, bolting up from shock. Giggles just exploded from the little punk who'd had the nerve to do that. I met Tumbler's bright, happy eyes, and just groaned.

"I gotcha!" he told me, all full with himself at pullin' one over on a big fella like me. I tried to smile, but my mouth didn't get too stretched out.

"I wanna go to bed, Tumbler ..." I said to him, thinkin' that would be the end of it and layin' back down. My eyes was practically closed and everythin'.

That little streetrat actually hit me in the face. "What would you wanna go to bed for? Sun ain't even set yet."

I sighed. "I made a lotta folks mad today, and I don't wanna talk to 'em. That's why."

Tumbler thought about this for a second. He's a regular philosopher when he wants to be -- a real thinker. "I made Boots mad today. I cheated him at marbles."

I gave him a look that was real disapprovin'. So who cares if I ain't perfect? No reason for me to let me act up. "You shouldn'ta done that."

He nodded, real serious. You'd think the kid was goin' to a funeral. "I know. But I said sorry and then he let me play again. You should tell 'em you're sorry."

I had to smile. Am I right or what? A philosopher, that kid. "Maybe tomorrow."

Tumbler looked at me with his brow all wrinkled, showin' me how confused he was about that. He's a cute kid, ya know? So I opened my arm a little and he crawled up beside me, layin' his head on my chest. I thought about rustlin' his hair, but then I decided I shouldn't rile him. He was real interested in one 'a the buttons on my shirt, and he was kinda pullin' at it. I knew it was gonna give anyway -- might as well let him yank it out.

"Why don't you talk to 'em today?" he wondered, kinda cockin' his head to look up at me. I shook my head, pullin' my hat off my head and layin' it beside me. I ran my fingers through my hair, tryin' to get it up like it's s'posed to be 'cause that hat kinda puts it down. I was thinkin' I'd better rinse it good tomorrow -- it was gettin' greasy. I was thinkin' I should get up early tomorrow and buy Race and Crutchy some breakfast 'fore they went out to sell. I was thinkin' I'd read it was s'posed to rain again tomorrow. And the more I thought, the more I just kinda smiled. 'Cause even though today had been pretty crappy, it was over. And even though I'd wake up tomorrow and realize I'd slept in my clothes and I still didn't have shoes and I'd have to be especially nice to everybody -- even Jack -- it was an absolute impossibility for tomorrow to be worse'n today. I was actually smilin' when I closed my eyes again, 'cause tomorrow was on it's way.

"Today just ain't the day for it, Tumbler."

**end**


End file.
